


valley lavender and magnolia

by AllOfThisMatter



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blushing, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Massage, Vallaslin, so so much blushing i honestly just couldn't stop myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13531407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllOfThisMatter/pseuds/AllOfThisMatter
Summary: “You don’t take enough care of yourself, Commander.  You are mortal just like the rest of us and need to honor your body.  Your spirit wails in pain,” she says quietly, her eyes leaving his on the last words, “I want to share this space with you.  You are welcome to come here whenever you have a free moment.  To restore yourself.  There are soothing herbs and peaceful quiet.  The water is always warm and the light is always gentle.  You do not need to lead in here.”Deafening silence.  She cannot bring herself to meet his eyes again.  A gloved hand, radiating heat through well-worn leather, takes her own.“My lady, I… do not deserve this kindness.  You are generous beyond reason,” he tells her, something akin to sorrow echoing in his rich baritone.“And you, ser, cannot recognize the goodness in your own soul.”~*~*~*~*~*~*~Both Cullen and Silena think that they can't have each other.  There's pining and blushing and all kinds of goodness.  Pls enjoy.Will update 2/2





	1. tension

_He’s too tense,_ Silena thinks as she watches the Commander pace the length of the war table. His brow furrows deeper and she can see the troop movements across the battlefield in his mind, the costs and gains. Tension rolls off his shoulders in undertow waves, and he takes another sharp turn. He stops, lifts his head. Catches her eyes. 

“We’ll just have to be ready by weeks’ end, then, Inquisitor. I promise you our best,” he says with a sigh, and her chest aches at the tightness around his amber eyes.

She replies with as much reassurance and encouragement as she feels he will allow. “I have full confidence in you and your men, Commander.”

Josephine and Leliana murmur their farewells and depart with the week’s business to manage. And Cullen stays, as he often does, hands leaned upon the table, head bowed to the map. She hesitates a moment, unsure of how to say how she wants to help him exactly.

“Commander, would you mind walking with me for a while this evening?”

He tilts his head as his gaze returns to her. She can see that he is unsure of the depth of the request, but he nods assent anyway. The Inquisition’s Commander, ever faithful. Her heart gives a little twinge at his trust.

Skyhold is quieting for the night’s rest as she leads him past the perimeter. The woods are shrouded in a soft silence, split only the quiet call of a lone owl. A light wind hurried off the Frostbacks. Silena feels the cold nibbling at her limbs, aware that she should have pulled on a thicker cloak before heading out into the chill, and a little shiver ripples through her.

The Commander’s eyes draw to her movement. She can sense a hesitance between them, like he wants to say something, but his mouth just tightens. They reach her destination in simple silence. His brow wrinkles as he takes in the low cave entrance in the hillside and the faint glow that emanates from within.

“I was a healer, in what seems like another life. And a bit of an engineer. So I’d… like to show you something, by your leave.”

His eyes seem to glow in the night just a few feet across from her. Like whispers of magic, reverently said. “I have followed you this far, my lady. I will always do so,” he rumbles, deep timbre echoing in her chest cavity and causing her to shudder faintly. _Please don’t notice,_ she hopes as she enters the cave, the Commander trailing behind her.

Silena was very used to solitude before she fell into the role of Andraste’s Herald. Used to the silence and calm of woods and valleys. After the chaos of Haven’s fall, she had needed desperately to carve a little piece of solace out of her turbulent life. She waits nervously, fingers twisting in the resin beads around her neck, as he takes in the features of the cave.

Its focal point is small pool, a few feet wide and deep. Steam rises in languid tendrils from its calm surface. The cave wall beside is carefully notched, seemingly as to allow a waterfall of sorts. On the opposite wall, there rests a bookshelf, holding some texts and some vials and boxes that he can recognize as healing supplies. Next to the bookshelf is a low pallet, draped in soft furs and piled with cushions. Other little touches of hers litter the space. A bottle of the sweet wine she adores, a basket of weaving, a book of old elven poetry. An unstrung bow and arrows to be fletched. The whole place smells of her, of rainfall and valley flowers.

“You don’t take enough care of yourself, Commander. You are mortal just like the rest of us and need to honor your body. Your spirit wails in pain,” she says quietly, her eyes leaving his on the last words, “I want to share this space with you. You are welcome to come here whenever you have a free moment. To restore yourself. There are soothing herbs and peaceful quiet. The water is always warm and the light is always gentle. You do not need to lead in here.”

Deafening silence. She cannot bring herself to meet his eyes again. A gloved hand, radiating heat through well-worn leather, takes her own.

“My lady, I… do not deserve this kindness. You are generous beyond reason,” he tells her, something akin to sorrow echoing in his rich baritone.

“And you, ser, cannot recognize the goodness in your own soul.”

Green eyes meet gold, at last. She watches a twitch in his jaw that months of study have shown her he wants to speak but cannot decide on the right words. That familiar blush dusts over his dear face as he gives up on speaking and instead raises her hand to his lips, bowing his head as if in prayer.

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“Please, Commander. It’s Silena.” She hopes she doesn’t sound too earnest.

“Then, Silena, it’s Cullen. And, it’s rather late. May I escort you back?”

She nods, feeling bereft a moment as his hand releases hers. He gives a small smile as he offers his arm, blush rising again as her small fingers curl against the leather bracers he wears when not in fierce battle. They are about to exit the cave when he stops.

“Oh, wait. My la— Silena, it’s quite cold out and your cloak is sort of thin. Here.”

He tugs that lovely fur mantle off of himself and onto her. The hem falls considerably further down her legs, as he is a much larger person. The ruff, which normally sits across his broad shoulders like a lion’s mane, hangs down almost to her stomach. _Oakmoss and elderflower,_ she thinks, inhaling deeply. Warmth blooms beneath her sternum, and she just feels so… dearly protected. 

The walk back to Skyhold was ripe with a companionable quiet which, hopefully, was not broken by the thundering of her heart.


	2. sanctuary

_Almost a year. Almost a year of glances, blushes, of “my lady”s and chess games._ Her spirit aches with want, her shirtsleeves stain darker with each pass over her damp cheeks. Silena has never felt anything like this before, but she thinks it probably shouldn’t _tear_ at her so. Shouldn’t be such a bone deep agony at the lack of him.

Then again, she’s never fallen out of a hole in the very fabric of the world before. Never landed in the middle of a war, never been the Herald of Andraste, never led a whole entire army. All of this is new. She knows that it shouldn’t feel like this. But she also knows this is perhaps the very worst time and place any could ever fall in lo—

She can’t let herself think of the word. It stings too much. She lets out another sob. Her elbows tingle with bloodlessness from where they’ve been pressed so tightly against the window sill. Skyhold is rife with the memory of him. It is his steady hand that has made this place what it is. And she needs to get out.

Silena walks dazedly through the Hold, giving only curt nods to those that pass her. Her feet move without her instruction. Her mind wanders.

_If only he wasn’t so damned kind and respectful. If only he hated her. If only those damned amber eyes didn’t radiate trust and admiration. But he is so cursed sweet and caring and gentle and— If only… if only we were just a man and a woman in another time, another place. Inquisition be damned._

Her legs have carried out of the main gates, and she is almost startled to find herself there, so lost was she in her self-berating. Her lungs stutter as she reaches pure, snow-cold air. The trees bend toward her in greeting and she hums in response.

 

*********

He is ill with want. Utterly wrecked. 

Cullen sinks deeper into the heated pool, his raised hand trying— and failing— to ease the pain in his neck. He lets his head fall against the cold stone floor. The water pulls soothingly at his limbs, the faint scent of valley lavender and magnolia filling his senses. The scent of her magic, he knows. It always fills the air when she casts, when she creates charms. He spots one, sitting on the ledge of the pool, and picks it up. Fingers running over the smooth selenite stone, his mouth tries to shape the faintly glowing symbol etched into its surface. _Sanctuary._ He’s been learning some Dalish from her, when he feels it won’t be prying to ask. 

Cullen closes his eyes as he presses the charm to his lips. It glows the sun-dappled, forest green of her eyes, radiates the peace he always feels in her presence.

_It is heresy to worship her as I do. I would cast off every title, break every vow, throw away every weapon if it pleased her. She is far more than someone else’s Herald. She is holy in her own right._

Returning the stone to its rightful spot feels very much akin to losing a limb, so agonizing it is to part from her magic. He ducks his head under the water and ruffles his hair. He cannot want her like he does. She is the leader of the Inquisition. She is chosen by the Maker and his Bride. She is… undeserving of the ugly burdens he carries. He could never put that weight on her.

_Almost a year of shy smiles, of laughter over cards and bad ale, of low-pitched “commander”s, and battlefield trust._ Maker, how he wished this was any other time, any other place. _Somewhere outside of mages and templars and rifts and elder gods. He would build a home, with his own hands. Court her, ask for her hand. Carry her over the threshold in his arms. Raise—_

He digs his nails into his thighs, jaw clenching, eyes screwed shut. _You are no father, Rutherford. And she is not yours to dream about._

Cullen’s eyes fly open. He should not linger in her space. It is more of a gift than he deserves.

Just as he raises himself out of the water, a slight figure steps into the cave. The Inquisi— Silena’s eyes widen, her mouth falls open, and an exquisite line of red traces across her cheeks and nose, shading her _vallaslin_ so enticingly. His breath hitches at her beauty.


	3. respite

Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of the Inquisition Army is totally, completely naked before her.

_Dear Sisters, Dear Andruil and Sylaise, preserve me._

Rivulets of her charmed water cascade down the most elegantly carved muscles she has ever seen. His countless scars glow bright scarlet from the water’s heat; she thinks briefly that she would spend entire hours sliding her fingers over each one, if ever given the chance. She wants equally as badly to tangle her fingers in the hair that she has just learned curls wildly when unattended. That gorgeous blush of his starts to travel down his neck, spreads across his chest, down his abs, and even—

She lets out a squeak as she realizes she’s staring and whirls around.

“I— Cul— Commander, um, I apologize immensely. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

She thinks that if her temperature rises any further, she will melt directly into the cave floor. Behind her, she hears the rasp of cotton over damp skin.

“Silena, you haven’t intruded. This is your place, which you graciously shared with me. I will leave immediately and never return if it is your will,” his voice, low and soft, carries to her across the empty space between them. “And, I am, err, decent.”

She cautiously turns to face him again. He is clothed in his familiar, worn leather pants and white linen shirt, laces undone. He has his right hand tightly grasped around the back of his neck, eyes downcast but spine straight. Deferent, but still in possession of himself.

“You needn’t leave, _vhenan._ I meant what I said last month, that this is a place of rest, for myself and now for you.”

_“Vhenan?_ I haven’t heard you say that before. What does it mean?” he asks, tilting his head.

“It— It’s not important,” she responds as she shrugs out of her cloak and goes to hang it up. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him wincing as he leans to tug his boots on. “Cullen, you really don’t need to leave. Just, sit,” she sighs, pointing at the pallet.

He stills, one boot on, the other dangling by its laces from his fingers. Cullen sets his jaw and walks carefully to the cot, settles his weight as he abandons the boots. Her Commander, obedient to the core. _Her Commander?_ she questions herself. _No. No more questions._ Her hand lets go of the frayed edge of her shirtsleeve that she usually can’t stop herself from pulling at. And then she sheds her trepidation, her hang-ups. 

She is suddenly, insensibly fearless.

“Let me fix your shoulder, _vhenan,”_ she murmurs as she crosses to the bookshelf and selects some rose oil. His brow furrows and her hand reaches for him, thumb soothing at the lines. “No thinking. You think too much and I just won’t have it in here. Now, shirt off, lay down on your stomach, and quiet your mind.”

“As the Inquisitor commands,” he answers. A shiver tingles down her spine.

***************

The Inquisitor Silena Yvainne Lavellan, chosen of the Blessed Andraste, is massaging his shoulder. She told him not to think, but he cannot help himself, his thoughts racing away as her small, sturdy hands work at the strained muscle. He stifles a groan at the exquisite feeling.

“Cullen, with your permission, I would like to use some magic to help you,” she says, her lovely voice already ensorcelling him. He has no words anymore; all he can give in response is a nod. _I trust you, unconditionally,_ he wants to say, _I would follow you to the very ends of the earth._

She laughs lightly before she starts to sing in her native tongue. Warmth rolls off of her fingers, seeping into his skin, the floral fragrance of her magic filling his every breath. Her hands shift from shoulder to spine, alternating light presses and firm. 

Cullen’s body is ravaged by constant abuse, criss-crossed by scars both old and new. He has not been whole since he was a young recruit, still wet behind the ears. Every day, he fights his mortal form just to get out of bed. But tonight, safe beneath her hands, he feels completely remade.

Silena moves to his neck, nimble fingers chasing the pain away with each pass. The air in his lungs leaves him as they slip into his hair to massage the base of his skull, where his headaches are always the worst.

Her song ends and she withdraws her hands. He nearly cries out at the loss.

“Are you alright, _vhenan?”_

Slowly, wordlessly, he drags his hands forward, pushes his torso up, swings his legs to the floor. And then he immediately pulls her into his arms, buries his face in the shining auburn curls against her neck. With tentative movements, she holds him in return, strokes a hand through his hair.

He supposes he must have been silent for too long, since she quietly says his name again, a heavy question he needs to answer.

“Thank you, so very, very much. I—“ he rasps, voice thick with raw emotion, “I have never felt so at peace before.”


End file.
